


will you hold me if I fall?

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Concussions, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Head Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26109436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: Martin slips and gets a concussion.Jon takes care of him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 193





	will you hold me if I fall?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Magnus Archives Hurt/Comfort Week; the prompt was "Treating / Distracting From Injuries".
> 
> I wrote this in an afternoon and it was not beta'd, so apologies for any typos or inconsitencies. I hope you enjoy anyway <3

It’s the rain water on the floor that does it, or maybe it’s Martin’s old shoes with their worn-down soles, or maybe it’s the steep stairs that lead down to the Archives, _or maybe_ it’s just a combination of all of the above.

Whatever is to blame doesn’t really change the fact that Martin slips and falls quite spectacularly.

When he plays the scene back in his mind he knows it must’ve been hilarious in a sort of theatrical and cartoonish way: the files flying from his hand, his high-pitched yelp, the flailing of his limbs as gravity made a mockery of him and brought him down to the floor.

It’s not so funny, though, when he opens his eyes and realizes he’s bleeding profusely from a not-so-shallow cut on his forehead, warm blood running down the side of his face. Someone is holding him, shaking him gently, and he _definitely_ doesn’t remember that happening.

“Martin. _Martin_ , can you hear me?” He hears from somewhere far away, a hand lightly tapping the one cheek not covered in blood, and with some difficulty he opens his eyes, his vision blurry and his head dizzy, but even through the fog he recognizes Tim’s worried expression. “Oh, thank god you’re awake. How you feeling, buddy? That was quite the fall you had there.”

“Hurts,” Martin mutters, grimacing, a sharp headache making its way to the forefront of his mind. Sasha appears in his field of vision, looking pale and worried, and she kneels down to press a damp cloth to his forehead. Martin hisses, shutting his eyes tightly, and Sasha whispers an apology as she presses at the cut as gently as possible, trying to stop the bleeding.

“Alright, let’s see how you’re doing. Can you tell me who’s currently president of the United States?”

Martin makes a face, wrinkles his nose and opens his eyes again, glaring at Tim. “Shouldn’t you be asking me who’s the Prime Minister or something?”

“Oh thank fuck he’s alright,” Tim says, laughing softly and adjusting his arms around Martin. Loud footsteps sound throughout the room, and Martin looks to the side to see Jon pocketing his own phone, brow furrowed deeply.

“Right, the ambulance should be here in about three minutes. How are you feeling, Martin?” He asks, voice low and... _gentle_ , which surprises Martin more than anything else. He hesitates, struggles with the words, but Tim, thankfully, comes to his rescue.

“He’s fine, boss, even got snarky with my choice of current world knowledge question.”

Jon chuckles, nods. “Right. Well, you can hardly blame him, that was… _quite_ the choice you made,” he says, making Tim gasps indignantly, and Martin blinks. Once. Twice.

Has he hit his head way harder than he thought or _did Jon just crack a joke?_

He has no time to ask, however, as Jon mentions going up to talk to Rosie and wait for the paramedics to arrive so he can guide them down to the Archives. Tim and Sasha help move Martin somewhere that isn’t the bottom of the stairs, and by the time Tim’s folded a jacket under his head there’s three people rushing towards him; all Martin can make out is that two of them are wearing dark green uniforms—the paramedics, of course—and the third person—Jon, he assumes—stands off to the side, wringing his hands nervously as he watches, unable to do anything to help.

The paramedics examine him, ask him a few world knowledge questions—Martin shoots Tim a sideways glance when the first question is _who is the current Prime Minister_ —and in the end they stop the bleeding on his head wound, clean it and slap a couple of butterfly stitches to the cut. They also offer to take him to the hospital so he can stay in observation for the evening, but he shakes his head and assures them it’s alright, he’s already feeling much better, pounding headache and blood loss dizziness aside.

With an advice for him to rest as much as possible and a warning for Jon to, under no circumstances, let him work for at least the next couple of days, the two of them take their leave. Tim helps Martin to the changing room showers, Sasha brings him one of his pyjama t-shirts and sweat pants, promising to bring his blood-soaked clothes back the next day looking clean and crisp. The two of them are sent home early by Jon, who tells them it’s been a long afternoon and he’ll keep an eye on Martin in behalf of all of them.

Which is how Martin finds himself sitting on his desk and chewing on a protein bar, with Jon holed up in his own office, door wide open, seemingly organizing the papers Martin dropped earlier. After several minutes of Martin staring at the far wall, trying to disassociate from the pain of his receding headache, he decides sleep is his best bet to pass the time, since screens and books are not at all a good idea at the moment. He gets up and starts walking towards the back room where his cot is currently set up when Jon notices him and makes a questioning sound.

“Are you going to try and sleep?” He asks, and Martin nods.

“It’s fine as long as I wake up every couple of hours, really. Just to make sure I’m not getting worse or anything.”

Jon lifts a brow. “And how do you plan on doing that, exactly?”

Martin hesitates; he _was_ planning on using his phone’s alarm, but somehow it seems like that’s the wrong answer. Jon presses his lips together and nods, setting the papers on his desk to the side, then taking his jacket and walking towards Martin.

“Right. Let’s go, then.”

“W-wh-what?” Martin asks, eloquently as ever, as Jon gently steers him to the back storage room. “J-Jon, you don’t have to—”

“I _want_ to,” Jon says, firmly, in a tone of voice that tells him there’s no room for argument, so Martin closes his mouth and nods, allowing himself to be guided along.

Once in the back room Jon goes to fetch a chair while Martin settles down for the evening; he’s all tucked in under the covers when Jon returns and closes the door behind him, turning off the overhead lights and turning on his phone’s lantern as a makeshift lamp, settling down on his chair with a book.

“Why are you doing this?” Martin asks, the pain mixed in with the exhaustion and the stress of everything that’s happened to him apparently ridding him of his inhibitions. Jon makes a noncommittal sound, then looks off to the side, his cheeks darkening.

If Martin wasn’t so out of it he might’ve recognized it for what it was—a blush. A rare moment of softness, of pure, unadulterated vulnerability from a man who constantly tries to make himself look as tough as possible, invincible and unshakable. Martin remembers how concerned Jon looked when he gave him his statement just a few weeks ago, and how that look is mirrored now in his expression.

Jon is _worried_ , and something small and warm blooms in Martin’s chest as he comes to this conclusion.

Instead of answering Martin's question, however, Jon wordlessly scoots his chair closer until its seat is touching the edge of the cot. He takes a hold of Martin’s covers—a soft, grey weighted blanket that the whole team pitched in so he could sleep better while taking refuge in the Archives—and pulls it up so it’s draped over Martin’s shoulders. Martin’s so tired that his eyes start drooping closed, but not so tired that he doesn’t register when Jon gently moves a lock of his curls away from the injury to check on it, when his other hand finds Martin’s atop the cot and squeezes his hand, a bit hesitant but still there all the same.

For a second Jon looks like he wants to say something, the tip of his fingers still touching Martin’s forehead, his eyes searching and his lips moving but not making any sounds. Instead he sighs, oh so softly, and sits back, placing a hand over the book on his lap.

His other hand, however, keeps holding on to Martin's, with seemingly no intention of letting go.

“Sleep, Martin. I’ll be here when you wake up,” he finally says, voice quiet, the words just for Martin and no one else, and Martin feels his heart beat hard and fast in his chest. He turns his hand up and wraps his fingers around Jon’s, squeezing once before nodding.

“Okay,” he whispers, allowing his eyes to finally close and sleep to completely take over him.

And two hours later, when Jon wakes him with a gentle nudge, checking him over before deeming him fine to go back to sleep, Martin thinks of how, for once in his life, he isn’t all that broken up about getting injured and having someone take care of him for a little while. Not in the least.


End file.
